Dim Halo
by Spooky-Girl
Summary: Sometimes, even the strong ones fall... AU future fic
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note : cringes Please don't kill me for posting this before I post the end to Sic Transit Gloria... I'm out of the cast, out of the brace, and for the most part, pain free. (Okay, it still hurts, but shhh, I need to work!) This is something I've been working on since long before the Season 1 finale, so... I need to post it. Leave me lots of comments and encourage me to finish this (and I'll work on the other one, I promise, it's just been SO lonnng.)

Anyway, please don't hesitate to let me know what you think!

Disclaimer : Oh, and I don't own Supernatural.

---

Dirty sunlight spilled through the streaked window, falling across the beds and leaving shadowy patterns on the parts of the carpet it couldn't quite reach. Pizza boxes and beer bottles littered every available surface, the top of the small table in the corner completely hidden and the dresser not far behind. The bedside table held a dozen or more empty bottles, one of which had fallen on it's side, amber liquid collecting in a pool, soaking the edge of the TV guide. The bedclothes had been kicked off sometime during the night, one stubborn blanket colored mustard yellow clinging stubbornly to the ankle of the man who lay face down in the pillows.

Partially buried beneath the bottles that stood upright on it, a digital alarm clock turned over to 7:00, emitting a pulsating tone loud enough to wake the dead.

In response, a hand shot out, catching the necks of several bottles and sending them careening onto their sides, colliding with more bottles before rolling off the stand and crashing to the ground. Ignoring the racket, the hand formed a fist and pounded savagely on the snooze button.

"Son of a fucking bitch..."

With a guttural stream of cursing, the man pulled his head from the pillows to peer blearily at the clock for a moment, scratching his head in an unconsciously comical manner as he deciphered the blurry numbers.

Without so much as a mumble, the man grabbed the cord of the clock and yanked it from the wall, letting it land where it may, and turned back to the bed, flopping over on his back and facing away from the light. As a last thought, the man reached for the bedclothes, pulling them up around him.

Groaning at the persistent sunlight, he pulled a pillow over his eyes, cursed once more, and gave up.

With an angry growl, he flung the pillow across the room, hitting the TV and sending another group of bottles to the floor.

Rolling out of bed in one fluid motion, the man ran his hands over his face and grimaced.

Muttering beneath his breath, he stumbled into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

Twisting the knob on the faucet all the way, he let hot water pour from the spigot for a few minutes before stripping down from his boxers and stepping beneath the spray.

Standing motionless, he let the water cascade over him. His hair, plastered to his skull, hung past his eyes, and he ran a hand through it, momentarily contemplating a haircut. He needed one, badly. Deciding it was too much effort, he slicked his hair back and reached for the tiny bottle of complimentary shampoo left by the maid on her last visit.

Dumping the contents into his hand, he worked his hands through the tangles in his hair, lathering up and trying to ignore the way it aggravated his already aching head. With the generous amount of suds left on his hands, he soaped his body, not bothering to reach for the actual soap.

Ducking back under the shower, he let the water rinse away the dirt, trying to remember when he'd last bothered to bathe. He should do it more often, he knew, not so much as a hygiene issue, but because he always felt better immediately after. Cleaner.

If the water could wash away the filth that clung to him like it was his own skin, he would stand there forever. But as it was, the water was running cold, and he had no intentions of freezing his ass off for the sake of feeling cleansed of sin.

Sin was meaningless after all, to an atheist.

He snatched a clean towel from the rack and frowned.

He wasn't entirely sure when he'd stopped believing in god. Maybe he'd never really started, because he sure as hell couldn't remember ever having faith. Faith was bullshit. A night light to chase away the monsters, real and metaphorical. It was a crutch that made you weak, made you believe you'd be saved by some higher power when all you had to depend on was yourself. The way he saw it, you got yourself propped up on faith, something real is gonna come knock it out from under you quicker than you can scream to some imagined deity to save your ass.

No, when it came down to it, all you had was yourself, and depending on anything else was a good was to get dead.

Chucking the towel into the corner, he grabbed his toothbrush and applied a healthy amount of Crest to the bristles. Cottonmouth aside, his mouth tasted like old sock.

He brushed, spat, rinsed, and left the bathroom feeling cleaner than he had in days.

Metaphorically.

He stood in front of the mirror on the wall for a minute, taking in his appearance. He was too thin; in fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a decent meal, but that was nothing new. His pants had been hanging on his hips for weeks now, held up only by the extra couple notches he'd added to his belt with the sharp tip of a knife. Crude, but better than shelling out cash for a new one.

His face was gaunt, his cheekbones standing out, eyes rimmed with dark circles that plainly told anyone who looked that he didn't get nearly enough sleep. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and looked closer at his face, showing a thin white scar at the eyebrow, a scar that made one hell of a story when he was drunk enough to be persuaded to tell it - which wasn't often.

He let his eyes drop, and tore his gaze away, quickly heading to his duffle bag, pulling out what passed for clean clothes, and dressing quickly, pulling on his worn jeans and tightening the belt so they didn't fall off when he pulled on the long sleeved shirt.

He made a quick trip back to the bathroom to retrieve his dirty boxers and toothbrush before stuffing everything back into his bag.

Standing, he surveyed the room with a frown.

As a courtesy to the maid, he collected the beer bottles and dropped as many into the trash as the can could fit. The rest he left in a row on the dresser.

He thought only briefly of the rest of the mess, going over the room only to make sure he had left nothing behind.

And then he stood, motionless, hands at his side, completely at a loss as to what to do next.

On the small table by the door, the phone stared back at him, mocking him.

Hesitantly, he took a step towards it, reaching out to trace the smooth surface of the earpiece, the square numbers on the face, tugging at the spiraled cord.

He knew he shouldn't call.

And so hesitantly, his hand picked up the receiver.

Shaky fingers punched out a number he knew by heart.

One ring...

Two...

Three.

His arm muscles protested as his mind fought the urge to hang up, and the desperate need to keep the line open just a moment more.

And then, a soft, female voice.

"Hello?"

He clenched his jaw shut, grinding his teeth, and held the phone in a death grip, thinking for a moment that he might crack the cheap plastic cover and end up having to fork over money he didn't have to pay for it.

"Hello?" the voice said again, more persistently.

In the background, he heard another voice asking softly who it was.

"I don't know," the woman said, speaking loud enough to be heard, but clearly turned away from the phone.

There was the sound of movement, a rustle as the phone was passed.

"Hello?"

A stronger voice this time, male, and achingly familiar.

He shut his eyes and tried to breathe.

The voice on the other end tried again, one word, hauntingly desperate as he asked.

"Dean?"

He hung up.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer : Is thusly discliamed.

A/N : This thing is long since written, but since there wasn't much interest in it, I didn't post the rest. I'll try another chapter and see what kind of response I get now that Sic Transit Gloria is finished. ;) Read and review, please... if you want more, you got it. If you want it retired, it's off to that condo in Florida.

---

The bar smelled of smoke and beer and dreams long dead.

Staring over the lip of the glass at the two men in front of him, he surveyed the situation. The guys were occupying the single pool table in the back of the dimly lit tavern, occasionally exchanging a friendly shove in between turns. If he had to guess, he'd say they were probably hunting buddies since high school. Looking like the stereotypical redneck good ol' boys, they were both clad in Wranglers and flannel shirts, one even wearing a John Deere hat. Big, but well into their forties, they had muscle on him, but he had speed and and agility on his side. From the looks of them, they wouldn't put up too much of a fight if they got wind of any foul play.

He smiled into the glass and tossed back the remaining liquid, slamming the mug back onto the bar.

Signaling the bartender, he ordered another beer, keeping his eye on the two guys in the back.

Taking the fresh bottle, he placed a few crumpled bills on the bar and stood, wandering toward the back. Standing back a few feet, he watched the guys with undisguised interest, taking frequent sips from his bottle. When he saw that he'd caught on of their attentions, he pulled a wad of bills out of his front pocket, fumbled with them for a minute before placing them in his back pocket.

One of the men nudged the other, and they shared an almost imperceptible nod.

"Hey, buddy," the larger of the men called.

He looked around, then pointed a finger at his own chest.

"Yeah, you," the guy said, motioning with his hand. "C'mere."

Clutching the bottle, he slowly walked forward, eyeing them suspiciously.

"Me an' Mike here need someone to play winner," the man continued. "You play?"

"Naw," he slurred. "Not really."

"That's alright," the one named Mike spoke up. "Just a friendly game."

His friend smiled. "Yeah. Friendly."

"I dunno," he said, looking at his boots, then at his beer, taking a long, exaggerated gulp.

The good ol' boys grinned.

"Come on," Mike said. "Jeff ain't no good either."

Jeff shoved his friend, and they laughed, obviously thinking they'd found some drunk sucker with a pocketful of cash he wouldn't know he was spending.

"Maybe just one," he said uncertainly, chugging the rest of his beer and setting the empty bottle on the side of the pool table.

He watched Jeff and Mike finish their game, almost laughing at their suddenly clumsy game. Leaning back against the wall, he waited for them to finish, cheering along with them when Jeff sunk the 8 ball.

"Here, you break," Jeff said, nudging his friend to hand over the pool stick.

Taking it with fumbling fingers, he approached the head of the table, concentrating hard on the cue ball, taking aim, and missing horribly.

"Shit," he cursed.

"Here," Jeff laughed. "Let me."

The first game was over in no time, with Jeff winning easily. Followed by a second, with Mike taking his turn against the younger man, giving no explanation why the loser suddenly got to keep playing.

On the third game, Jeff let him win, missing easy shots on purpose, and giving him the advantage of knocking a few of his balls in by accident.

Drinking the beer provided by his new "friends" to get him even drunker, he wasn't surprised when the suggestion that they should put some money on it arose.

Fumbling his wad of cash again, he placed a twenty on the table in silent agreement.

He lost two games before they upped the stakes, and fed him two more beers. By this time they surely thought he was smashed, partially because he'd shown up already "drunk", but mostly because he was a damn good actor. He pretended not to notice he was the only one drinking.

Pulling out a hundred dollar bill, he grinned cockily and slapped it on the table.

Mike and Jeff exchanged grins.

Halfway through the game, and losing badly, he lost his confident air, and started making stupid mistakes. It was no surprise when he lost.

Noting the sign of triumph in the older man's eyes, he pleaded, "Double or nothing?" and stumbled to the head of the table.

Fifteen minutes later and a hundred bucks richer, he left the visibly upset pair at the table and stumbled to the bathroom.

Letting the door swing shut behind him, making a face at the dirty conditions, he tucked the money in his wallet stood in front of the sink, turning the faucet to cold. Splashing water over his face, he let his sleepy expression drop, and stared hard into the streaked mirror above the sink. Dull hazel eyes stared back, empty and lifeless.

Sniffing, shut off the water and reached for a paper towel, drying his face. He crumpled up the paper towel and tossed it into the overflowing trash can. Staring only one moment longer, he pushed away from the sink and headed out.

It was better to use the back exit, he decided. No matter how much speed he had on the older men, there were two of them, and he didn't want to take the chance.

The night was young, and he was only half as drunk as he'd like to be. From there, he'd find a liquor store, a hotel, and crash for the night. Come morning, he'd move on to the next town, the next bar. It was a routine he'd grown used to. It might be fucked, but he was comfortable with it.

He pushed open the back door and stepped out into the alley behind the bar, sucking in a deep breath.

"Another day another dollar," he said softly, unaccustomed to the sound of his own voice.

"Say what, stranger?" said a voice from the darkness.

His head snapped up sharply, and he peered into the night, searching for the face to accompany the familiarity of the voice.

"I don't want any trouble," he said.

"And we want out money."

"Fuck," he spat. "I won that."

Pointless to add fair and square. They new the truth and so did he. Still, winning is winning, and that made the money his. Or so he was willing to believe.

"Just give us the money," said Mike's less angry tone. "We don't wanna have to hurt you."

He snorted.

"I'll be leaving now, boys," he said casually, and took a few steps.

A fist shot out, and he had the time to make out the outline of a large body topped with a trucker hat, just before he went down from the punch.

"Son of a bitch," he hissed, rising from the damp concrete with a hand to his jaw. "I'm gonna kick your ass."

"I think it's gonna be the other way around," Jeff's voice said.

And suddenly they rushed at him, one man pinning him against the brick wall of the alley, the other driving a fist hard into his stomach. He doubled over, gasping as the wind was driven from his lungs.

"Get his pockets."

Struggling against the arms holding him, he felt hands reaching into his front pockets, a little too personal for comfort. He lashed out, feeling his boot connect with soft flesh, and heard a grunt.

"Bastard," Mike whispered.

"You're gonna pay for that," Jeff's strained voice said.

His eyes had adjusted enough to make out the man's form as he rose and approached him.

"You punks waltz in here and think we're so stupid you can just take our money like candy from a baby," Jeff said angrily, standing close, leaning in so close he could smell the man's rancid breath. "You think we're all dumb hicks and we don't know when we're bein' played."

"That was the idea," he said, straining still.

Mike shoved him hard into the bricks and Jeff's thick fingers closed around his neck.

"You lying son of a bitch," he hissed. "I could kill you right here. Dump your body and nobody'd know who did it. Nobody would _care._ You think I won't?"

At that moment, air cut off, the malice emanating from the other men, he had no doubt that Jeff would carry out his threat.

"You're probably right about that," he relented. "Fine. Let me go, I'll give you the damn money."

"Yeah, right," Jeff sneered. "Hold him, Mike."

"Where's the money?" the man asked, facing him.

"Wallet," he muttered. "Let me go, it's yours."

"Turn him around," Jeff ordered.

"What? No," he said, suddenly feeling panic rising in his throat.

But Mike roughly flipped him, shoved him face first into the wall, pressing down hard on his shoulders. There was the click of a switchblade opening, and he renewed his efforts, thrashing and trying to twist free.

"Hold him still," Jeff ordered.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he shouted, turning his head to look, and received a thump to the back of the head for it.

"Shut up, boy," Mike said, pressing his cheek to the rough brick.

He felt the blade of the knife run gently up the back of his jacket, and shivered, a rush of memories flooding back, making his skin crawl. He knew he had to get out before he became some twisted story on the six o' clock news.

"You know all them redneck horror stories you hear?" Jeff said, pressing up against him, whispering menacingly in his ear. "Most of them are true."

Mentally cursing, he pivoted his hips, trying to twist free of Mike's unrelenting grip.

With a grunt, one of the men lashed out, and he felt the explosive pain of a boot being driven directly into the back of his knee. Letting out a strangled cry, he fell to his knees, unable to keep the leg from giving out.

"Get him," Jeff was muttering, and he was pulled away from the wall and shoved roughly onto his stomach.

A knee to the back made it impossible for him to move, the weight pressing him into the damp ground, water seeping through his clothes.

He could feel the men tugging at his pants, and reacted immediately, pushing up on his hands and trying to get his feet beneath him. The insistent pressure on his hips forced him back down before he'd risen an inch.

Jeff swore impatiently, and suddenly, he felt an insistent tug at his belt as the knife met initial resistance, then cut through the leather easily.

"No!" he shouted.

Bucking his hips backward, and receiving a sharp pain as the knife caught his lower back, he managed to throw the men off balance, and twisted onto his back, kicking out and scuttling backward until he was able to get onto his feet.

"Fuck!" Jeff shouted. "Get him!"

His injured leg dragged, and he feared he wouldn't be able to get away as fast as he hoped. Sure enough, a hand to his ankle sent him crashing to the ground. Scraping his palms as he tried to stop himself, he felt the impact jar his teeth, and pushed to ignore it.

"Mike!"

"Got him," the man replied confidently.

This time they grabbed him by his shoulders, spinning him around.

The hand holding the knife came fast, and without having to think, he parried, crying out as the blade cut into his hand, but knocking it away.

The two men rushed him, arms outstretched to grab him. Sidestepping the hurried attack, he grabbed Mike, using his momentum against him, and throwing him into the wall, hearing the man's head connect with a sickening thud.

Turning as quickly as he could, already anticipating Jeff's angry attack, he was able to grab the man, twisting his arm behind him. He heard a distinct pop as the shoulder gave, and placed a weak kick with his injured leg into his back. It was enough to send him to the ground beside his friend.

Reaching down, he pulled up his pant leg and removed the hidden gun from it's holster.

"Guess it's true what they say," he said flatly, staring at the two dazed men.

A slow smile spread across his lips.

"Never bring a knife to a gun fight."

"N-no!" Jeff said, the fight all gone from his body. "Please!"

"Please, no," he spat. "How many times have you heard that before?"

They exchanged a glance, and he knew without hearing it that they were weighing the option of attacking again.

"No, don't," he said without feeling.

They did.

And just like that, his intentions were justified, and it was that much easier to pull the trigger.

He did, twice, wincing as the sound carried on the wind.

Time to go. Kneeling to pick up the switchblade that had been discarded, he wiped the blood, his blood, on his leg, he pocketed it.

Half a dozen people in the club had seen him with the guys, and knew his face well enough to give t he police a good enough description of him. But it didn't matter if they saw him standing over the bodies, in broad daylight. What could they do?

Dean Winchester was dead.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I still don't own Supernatural. I tried, but apparently can't believably pass for Eric Kripke. Rats. Anyhoo, here's the next installment. Sit back with a cup of tea, coffee, or Irish coffee, and enjoy my twisted world!

And yes. It _is_ bleak. Tell your friends!

---

He didn't spend much time thinking about the future. When you grow up knowing you may not survive the night, it seems a little silly to start dreaming dreams you might never have the chance to live out. He was schooled from an early age not to waste his time thinking about what he wanted to be when he grew up, but to focus on cleaning his guns, honing the blades of his knives into deadly sharpness, and looking only a few days into the future. Where they find the latest evil, how they would kill it, and what they would do with the body. And when that was taken care of, they would figure out where to go from there, and what to look for next.

He guessed that was where his sense of wanderlust came from. As much of a need to keep moving as it was an unreasonable _fear_ of staying put. A rolling stone gathers no moss, and he dreaded the sensation of any ties taking root at his feet. The second you got to feel at home in any place meant it was time to move on. Another thing he'd learned early on - don't get too attached to people, places, or things. In fact, learn the word 'noun' well, and then scrub the word out of your vocabulary, you're not to be attracted to any of those things. They get in the way, and they make what could be an easy process difficult.

And so, he woke up, travelled, slept, then woke and travelled again. If he was lucky, he would find something to peak his interest, some looming danger to avert, some beast to kill, some local patrons to hustle in a smoky bar, because motels and meals don't pay for themselves.

He would spent a maximum of a week in a town. Longer only if he was off his game, and the hunt demanded his presence another night or two. Then he would be gone, moving on to the next town, the next problem, and another small town full of faces he wouldn't remember, faces that never gave him a second look.

And all was well.

It wasn't a great life, but it was familiar, routine, and that was enough for him most times.

But sometimes... sometimes he longed for more.

When his mind was sufficiently numbed with alcohol, when the night was not quite over, but morning had not yet made it to the horizon, that was when he remembered. When he was too tired to fight it, too pliant with the whiskey flowing through his veins, it came back to haunt him.

Not the fight, the endgame that left them all broken, bleeding, and breathing easier than they had in years. He never dreamed the demons face, or the battle that ensued after it's location. He never dreamed about his family fighting side by side, taking as many blows as they dished out, and nearly falling at the feet of a more than formidable enemy.

He didn't dream of the celebration after, the strange looks they'd received when they stepped, mangled, into a bar, and bought everyone drinks. Not of falling asleep on a bed with his brother, too smashed to demand his father get two rooms, or of waking the next morning missing a familiar weight on his chest.

He dreamed of goodbyes. Of his father smiling and telling them how proud he was, and promising to keep in touch, that he would call soon with a permanent address, and how they all laughed at that strange idea. How they shook hands, hugged, and came close to crying, but never spilled a tear. And he dreamed of his father's truck, fading into the distance, and his smile, the smile of a man freed from a once doomed destiny.

He dreamed of the tight-lipped conversation as he drove his brother across the country, stopping minimally, because he wanted to get it over with fast. He dreamed of biting his lips when he wanted to ask his brother to stay, to give him the chance to say yes this time. And how his brother had hugged him in front of the world when they stood before the admissions office.

He dreamed of last words.

_"Come with me..."_

_"What? Man, you know I can't do that."_

_"Why not? What's out there for you now? Nothing."_

And how it was true.

_"There's the hunt."_

_"The hunt is over, Dean! We finished it! We won... Come on, what's it gonna take for you to settle down, man? You know you can't do this forever."_

_"Not forever. Just 'till I'm dead."_

Final words.

_"Goodbye, Dean."_

_"Bye...Sam."_

He had walked away, and left his brother watching with some mixture of confusion and pity in his eyes. Had driven off into the fucking sunset, stopped at the nearest bar, and proceeded to get drunk off his ass.

He hadn't been sober much in the last three years. What time was not spent hunting, sleeping, or driving, was spent drinking. And maybe it was pathetic, maybe it was his attempt to escape reality and push aside emotion and thought, but it worked.

Oh, if they could see him now.

He took a swig of the bottle clutched in his fist and stared at himself in the mirror. Pity laced his own eyes at the sight of what he'd become.

A killer, but what else was new?

He'd been killing since he was a kid, taught survival of the fittest.

Well he'd fucking survived. And if it meant two lowlifes weren't around anymore, so be it. It didn't matter, because he was still here.

He didn't condone killing humans. Not in most cases. Unless it involved him and his family.

Family that he hadn't seen in years, mostly at his own doing.

At first they called all the time, leaving voicemail that ranged from first curious, then worried, then to frantic. He'd simply turned the phone off, continued to "pay" for the service, but left the phone with it's dead battery at the bottom of his duffle bag. Someday he'd need it, and it wouldn't work, because Murphy's Law had a special fondness for him, but he didn't give it much thought.

He never called them. Ignored their calls. Deleted their messages.

He told himself there was no real reason behind it. It was just easier that way. But he had reasons, even if he didn't admit them. He didn't want to hear how well their lives were going. Their success petrified him, angered him. How could they find their niches so easily when he had trouble carrying on a conversation that didn't involve which exorcism technique worked best? How could they just give up the hunt and resume normal living when he couldn't?

And what the fuck was wrong with him?

Parked just outside Kentucky in the empty parking lot of a rest stop, he settled into the backseat with a bottle of vodka and a blanket.

It was funny, he decided. Of all the things that could have killed him, the thing that brought him down was victory.

Swallowing a mouthful of the harsh liquid, he stared at the ceiling of the car, imagining he could see the stars.

He opened his mouth and spoke to the stars.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned..."

---

_Bless me father, for I have sinned..."_

Sam Winchester's eyes shot open.

For a moment, he was back in the haunting familiarity of another unfamiliar motel room, another foreign bed, another room just like the last. For a moment, he could swear he heard his brother's voice from the other bed.

He sat up.

Almost afraid to look around him, he kept his eyes on the window directly across the room, staring with wide eyes. Afraid that if he looked away, his entire reality might suddenly have shifted. Afraid he might really see some unfamiliar room, and that the person sleeping next to him might not be his girlfriend. The window anchored him to reality. As long as he could see the tree in the front yard and the street lights glowing softly, he was okay.

_"It's been... thirty four years since my last confession..."_

Eyes wide open, he saw a flash, as if from a dream, overtake his vision. The window disappeared, and in it's place, he saw a man hunched over a bar. Throwing back a shot of harsh amber liquid, the glass slammed back down on the bar.

_"I killed someone."_

He sat staring at the window, gaze unwavering, as if it was a portal through which these visions came and to blink would end the transmission.

_"Put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Just like that."_

He swallowed hard, unable to breathe.

_"And then I killed his friend, too."_

Another flash, the same man shaking pills into his hand, bringing his hand to his mouth, and dashing them back with a long swallow of beer.

_"I'm not sorry."_

He didn't have to see the face to know who it was. He'd had that back turned on him enough to recognize it no matter what.

"Dean."

He spoke the name aloud, barely a whisper.

Another image passed before his eyes, his brother sitting on the edge of a bed, bent over with his head in his hands. Almost as if he could see Sam in the same way Sam saw him, he looked up. Tears spilled from bloodshot eyes, streaming down his cheeks, a look oh hopelessness and desperation written on his face.

The Dean from the vision switched scenes suddenly, now speaking over the mouth of a bottle.

Sam heard the words inside his head.

_"Guess that means I'm going to hell, huh?_

A bitter smile passed his lips.

_"Fuck. Even hell won't take me."_

He didn't know whether to be relieved or worried when the vision ended, and he found himself staring again at the window across from the bed.

"Sam?"

He turned, the sight of his girlfriend melting away a little of the chill that had wrapped itself around his heart. He swallowed and smile shakily.

"Did you have a bad dream?" she asked, sitting up and brushing her blonde hair out of her sleepy eyes.

Looking at the window once more, he shook his head.

"No, just... someone drove past. Had their music too loud," he lied. "It woke me up."

"Getting old, Samuel?" she teased. "Those crazy kids and their MTV rap."

He smiled back at her, and wrapped his arm around her, leaning back against the pillows.

"You know I love you, right?" he asked her.

Ashley laughed, a gentle sound that warmed his heart.

"Of course, Sam. And I love you."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: The next installment of Dim Halo, or what is now known as : "What exactly DOES it take to break Dean Winchester?"

Um, so, I've been meaning to get this up for a while, but with the recent BREAKDOWN of the site, it hasn't been possible. I still don't know what's going on with that, only that I tried to upload alll weekend and nothing happened. Even earlier today. Then I tried again and it magically worked when I updated Inherit. So I'm getting this up while I still can and praying it works!

---

He woke at dawn with the sound of traffic in his ears, and an ache in his head, a hangover that hadn't had enough time to rage sufficiently. It would be dulled with aspirin washed back with water from the tap in the rest stop bathroom, and then ignored until it went away.

He was on the road before seven, driving like a wanted man - fast enough to get away, but not so fast that every cop in the county would be on his tail. He had no idea where he was going, only that he needed to put space between him and the dead men. Not that it really mattered, of course, but he grew up cautious, and he wouldn't let up until he was dead and gone.

The hum of the wheels on the highway was too much like a lullaby to his tired mind, and he cranked up the stereo to compensate. The windows were rolled down, the chilly morning air acting as a stimulant until he could get enough caffeine in his system that dozing off at the wheel was impossible.

He needed money, and he needed it fast.

He needed gas and a cheap hotel. He needed time to asses and lick his wounds.

He needed -

He needed a fucking break.

Noting a rest stop sign, he switched lanes without bothering to signal, and sped down the off ramp, whipping into a parking spot in front of the squat building.

Running a hand through his hair to try to tame the unruly tangles, he scowled at himself in the rearview mirror. He looked like shit, as usual, but it mattered very little to him. Which might be a a shock coming from a man who used to covet his good looks. Just his luck, no one was around to know any better. Now anyone who looked at him would think he was just another slob, a fashion victim in dire need of a hair cut and a new wardrobe.

Stepping out of the car, he took stock of the almost empty parking lot before entering the building and heading for the men's room.

A sick feeling in his stomach, noticeable but easy to ignore, he pushed open the door and respectfully avoided looking at the single man using one of the urinals that lined the door. He stepped up to the sink and turned on the faucets, silently eyeing the stalls behind them and finding no tell tale feet.

They were alone.

Drying his hands on his jeans, he walked in the direction of the stalls slowly, choosing the one directly behind the man, who was just zipping up his fly. At the last possible moment, he spun around, jamming the man up against the wall.

With a shout of surprise, the man pushed back with more force than he'd anticipated.

"Don't," he hissed, shoving the man harder into the wall.

"What the hell?!" the man cried.

"Trust me," he said. "You don't wanna ask."

While the man struggled, his hand dipped down into the back pocket, coming away with the wallet. With one hand, he pulled the generous amount of cash from the billfold and shoved it into his pocket.

"Hey, come on!" the man protested.

"Two choices," he said, stuffing the wallet in his jacket pocket. "Get down on the floor and close your eyes or -"

"Go to hell!" the man replied.

"Guess it's the second one," he said easily.

In one fluid movement, he pulled the man's head back, then sent it crashing into the tile wall with enough force to knock the man sprawling to the floor, unconscious.

Glancing back one at the door, he watched with steely eyes, as the man's chest rose and fell.

Then, he pulled the door open, and left.

Back at the car, he slid behind the wheel and got the hell out of there.

Pushing eighty on the highway, taking the time only to take the wallet and wipe it clean of fingerprints, just in case, and then throw the damn thing out the window and into the grass on the side of the road.

He kept his eyes on the road stretching ahead, despite the urge to watch it recede through the back window.

On some level, an easily ignored level, he was amazed at his ability to look past this. The first time, there was some measure of guilt, but he convinced himself that his need to get by was more important than worrying about what was going to happen if some other guy with a steady paycheck lost a couple bucks.

Somewhere along the line, he stopped thinking of himself as a person. Things like this only made the notion more concrete. He hadn't heard his name spoken in months, and didn't care to. And all because of two people he loved more than life, and hated with a bitter passion he could get rid of.

He thought about them often, denied it frequently, and spoke of it never.

His family.

He'd heard old veterans tell stories about wars from before his time, and how the bonds of battle forged friendships as strong as or stronger than those of family. How people from different backgrounds, different worlds, fought side by side against a common enemy and came out on the other side brothers, every bit as real as if they shared blood.

He scoffed and spat out the window.

It was all bullshit.

Blood didn't mean anything. The bonds of war meant even less.

Here was living proof.

Blood wasn't enough to keep his family together.

The bonds of war weren't enough to keep his family together.

He wasn't enough to keep his family together.

He could - and did - pretend that it didn't bother him, but he knew the truth. It bugged the hell out of him. Got down under his skin and ate away at him. Of course, admitting it to himself was one thing. As long as no one else knew, that was what mattered. And he made damn sure no one saw past his carefully constructed exterior.

The truck in front of him slammed on it's brakes suddenly, and with the sudden red reflecting in his eyes, he swerved into the other lane, just barely able to narrowly avoid clipping the bumper of the semi.

He angrily punched the steering wheel with the palm of his hand, and ran the stinging appendage through his hair.

That's all life was these days.

Narrowly avoiding one catastrophe after another was quickly getting old.

It was only a matter of time before the crash came.

And when it did...

Well, just because you saw it coming, didn't mean you could escape it.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N : Again, apologies for taking so long updating. Please be patient and I'll bake you all my famous Impala shaped cookies.

---

When he really stopped to think about it, he hadn't fallen that far.

He'd always lived one step on the wrong side of the line. Always been one step ahead of the law, relying on looks, luck, and finely honed - if not slightly illegal - skills , rather than honesty, to get him by. He'd been good at what he did, hunting, fighting, killing. Always did what needed done, no hesitation, never flinched at the pull of a trigger, the knife-through-warm butter sensation of killing.

So it was no surprise that eventually the line between good and evil, right and wrong blurred, and finally, ceased to exist.

He wondered sometimes what his father would think, knowing that he'd trained his son to be this man. Given him the skills he needed to fight to win and taught him that survival was the first priority. Kill or be killed did not change from battleground to what was now a normal life for him.

If his survival depended on wasting a few low-lifes, or stealing, he'd do it.

Whatever it took, he'd do it.

Begrudgingly, he stopped at the next motel, pulled into the parking lot and spent five minutes debating whether he really wanted to fork over his newly acquired cash on a room. In the end, he decided his wounds needed more attention than undressing in the back seat could offer.

In a turn of good luck, the man at the front desk didn't look up long enough to be suspicious and glanced only briefly at the fake identification he handed over. In no time he had keys, a room, and a safe haven, if only for one night.

He wasted no time, hauling his meager first aid kit out of the car and undressing in front of the mirror over the sink.

He'd spent the greater part of a half hour the previous night picking gravel out of the abrasions on his palms, but he wound on his hand was slightly worse. Hurriedly wrapped in a scarp of dirty cloth, it still did not beg immediate attention, so instead he turned, focusing on the slash on his back. Stretching over his lower back and hip, the wound looked worse than it felt.

He'd gotten lucky.

He scoffed and turned away, stepping into the tub to grab a quick shower, grimacing as his bare feet padded across the grimy tile. Not wasting any time lingering in the cesspool of a shower, he scrubbed down, taking his time only to wash his wounds, and then wrapped himself in a towel.

Avoiding his own eyes, he faced the mirror again, locating the cut on his hip, and applied a generous amount of antibiotic ointment before covering the angry red stripe with a gauze pad. He rewrapped his palm and left the bathroom, supplies still spread out on the sink.

For the hell of it, or so he told himself, he dug his phone out of the bottom of his bag, along with a seldom used charger. Plugging the latter into the wall, he set the phone on the bedside table, and proceeded to stare at it.

"Fuck you," he told the phone quietly.

Because suddenly the very existence of the device is an offense. Suddenly he wants to snatch it up and throw it against the wall.

He spun angrily on his heel, the motion sending knifing pain through his knee, reminding him what happened only two nights ago. Two nights and several states was not enough to get that creepy-crawling feeling off of his skin.

He decided to forgo the bar that night, even if it meant facing it sober.

For a moment he doubted his ability to sleep without the aid of liquor, but knew the moment he hit the sheets, he would be out. He was exhausted, mentally and physically, and it was only early afternoon.

Settling himself on the bed, he tried to ignore the presence of the phone beside him, tracing patterns on the towel still wrapped around his waist.

Oh, hell, he had to do it sometime, now was as good as later.

He flipped the phone open and keyed it on.

It took a moment after the screen lit up to register the information. He bit back a sigh at the tiny letters. Missed calls : 30.

It had been a while.

He dialed the voicemail and listened to the mechanical voice informing him that he had almost as many messages. Wishing there was a way to delete them in mass quantities, he waited for the playback.

_"Hey, Dean... it's Dad. Look...call me, okay? Just... let me know you're alright."_

Delete.

_"Dean, come on, you can't ignore us forever."_

Apparently he could.

Delete.

_"Son, this has gone on long enough. We're worried... "_

He listened with a tense body and a blank face as his only remaining family pleaded with him to come visit, to call, to send any word that said he was alive.

Until...

_"Dean? It's Sam. Uh... listen... I know it was you who called last night. I mean... I think it was you. I'm pretty sure it was you. Anyway... why did you hang up? Please, Dean, if you're in some kind of trouble - "_

He pressed 7 twice, effectively cutting off the message and sending it to the trash, trying desperately to send his brother's voice there with it.

Trouble?

"You have no idea," he spat.

Angrily tossing the phone back on the table, he swung his legs up onto the bed, and turned on to his side, putting his back to the door, barely feeling the twinge in his back.

Trouble... what a fucking joke, he thought. He'd been in trouble two years ago when he broke his leg in the woods hunting down some false alarm demon and had to walk three miles back to the car. He'd been in trouble when he found himself up against a multiple spirit haunting with an empty shotgun and no back up. He'd been in _trouble_ when he'd run out of money and had to resort to jumping unsuspecting victims in parking lots and finely tuning his pick-pocketing skills.

This?

Trouble didn't even begin to define this.

He was in over his head and sinking deeper every day. Floundering with no real desire to put forth the effort it would take to tread water.

He didn't care, and it pissed him off that his brother and his father, up their on their high horses, had the nerve to look down and tell him if he needed help, they were there.

Well, they were fucking liars.

They weren't there now any more than they had been in the past.

Even then, physically present, they were too far detached, worried about their own vendettas, that they didn't have the presence of mind to see that their family was falling apart. That _he_ was falling apart. So when the threads began to unravel, even if he'd asked for help, the self- righteous bastards wouldn't have been able to pull their heads out of their asses long enough to notice that the one holding them together was coming to pieces.

He drove his fist into the bed, and let out a choked cry, a sob that would never make it any further than that. His eyes, squeezed shut, were free of tears, because he didn't cry, not ever.

He was daddy's little soldier, after all.

---

Sam found his hand once again wandering to the pocket that held his cell phone. His fingers absently traced the buttons, reciting the familiar numbers without thinking. His mind should be on his class, he knew, but no matter how hard he tried to concentrate, he couldn't.

It had been a long time since he'd had a vision, especially one as vivid as that, and he wasn't sure what it meant.

His brother was in trouble, he surmised, but what kind he couldn't tell.

Drinking - that was Dean. Killing innocent men, not so much.

And damn him, no matter how many times he dialed his number, his brother had taken a page from John Winchester's book, avoiding phone calls, not returning calls, and probably ignoring any messages they left.

At first, it was maddening, not being able to contact his brother. Not just because he worried, but because he wanted to share with his brother the life he was making for himself. He wanted to tell him about Ashley and his classes and his apartment, and his father's new interest in all of the above - how they were finally becoming a family.

Only, they couldn't find him. Even his father, with all his contacts and all his savvy, could not seem to figure out just where the hell his oldest boy had gone.

The last time they'd seen each other, John had mentioned the possibility that Sam refused to even think about. He knew his father logically could not erase the possibility that Dean was dead, but Sam was certain that if his brother was truly gone, he'd know. Deep down on some level, he knew his brother was alive.

But that didn't mean he was okay.

Idly drawing in the margins of his notes, Sam glanced at his watch, almost groaning out loud. Time was dragging, and he still had forty minutes to go. His notes were nothing but chicken-scratch.

Leave it to Dean to mess up his plans even when he was missing in action.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N : Whoa. Sorry for the delay, everybody, I assure you it wasn't intentional. Somehow the time gets away from me. Busy, busy, busy, but that's no excuse! I'll try to be more diligent about this story. Though I warn you, you won't like the ending, no matter how fast I post it. Not to worry, there's still a few chapters between now and then, so in the meantime, enjoy!

---

Growing up with a shadow of impending doom casting itself over you could seriously skew your view on the world. For most people, death was already a very real aspect of life, something dreaded and avoided in extreme measures. For him, death was not only a threat, it was a guarantee. He lived each day knowing it could very well be his last. He harbored no dreams of a happy future because he knew he had none beyond hunting. It was what he did, all he knew, and the only alternative.

He wasn't afraid of dying.

But he was terrified of dying alone, and without accomplishing anything.

So each fight that presented itself, he threw himself into it with all he had, and did not relent until whatever evil had surfaced was sent to hell with him on it's heels.

And he was good at it.

At least, he used to be.

As he ducked a swing, he realized that no matter how much heart was in the moves, he was no longer as agile as he once was. Skin and bone did not hold up as well in a fight as muscle. It was hard to put as much force behind a blow when he couldn't remember his last meal.

The creature before him grinned, revealing several rows of dripping yellow teeth, already vicious, but somehow far more offensive in this guise of a smile.

"Time to die, hunter," it hissed.

With startling speed, it launched itself at him, the mottled green and grey skin blending in with the darkness of the forest behind it.

He welcomed the attack, using the momentum of the demon against it, letting it knock him to the ground and using his own force to propel it over him and backward, but instead of the crash he hoped for, the demon landed agilely and spun around, ready to attack.

He got to his feet seconds before it came, just in time to dodge the creature. Unfortunately the most he could do was fling himself to the side and crash into the ground again.

Cursing, he rolled, anticipating the demon's attempt to hit him while he was down. His instincts at least were still intact.

Thank god for small graces.

He struggled to his feet, winded, and searched with wild eyes.

Minutes before, what seemed like hours, the creature had sent his gun flying, by telekinesis or a swipe of the arm, he wasn't sure. It had happened too fast. One minute he'd been ready to shoot, and the next, he'd been disarmed, and the thing flew toward him.

Hell, he didn't even know what the damn thing was. Animal, vegetable, demon, or some mutated version of some animal he didn't know existed - he was in the dark. Sam had always been the one to research, to make sure they knew what they were going up against before they were in over their heads.

He pulled a frown as his thoughts somehow strayed to his brother. Angrily, he cursed himself for letting his opportunity slip away. Any second now the creature would be on his back, and he still didn't know where his gun was.

The second the attack came, the second he felt the claws sink into his back, was the very moment he spotted his gun. And as he fell to his knees, pushed forward by the searing pain, he realized he wasn't going to reach it. He was going to die, alone, without even managing to get the fucker.

It pushed him forward, his face ungracefully connecting with the ground, pain exploding in his nose as the creature pulled it's claws from his back.

Choking on dirt, gagging as he tried to breathe, he fought against the pressure on his back. This was no game. This was no back-alley game ended easily when things got bad.

The gun seemed to taunt him, close enough to see the glint of moonlight off the silver metal, far enough away to mean his death.

It occurred to him as the demon flipped him over, that this might not be such a bad way to go. Blaze of glory, it wasn't. But dying in battle had always been his plan, hadn't it? He didn't want to grow old and grey, die surrounded by children and grandchildren. He wanted to go down swinging.

And this...

... wasn't swinging.

The demon stared at him with harsh yellow eyes, and pulled it's lips into that damned grin, bringing it's forked tongue out, flickering over his cheek for a moment before running it over the rows of pointed teeth.

With an almost human look of satisfaction, it brought it's hand back and drove the claws deep into his stomach.

He let out a groan of agony, the only sound he would allow to pass his lips.

"Scream," it hissed, twisting.

His mouth opened involuntarily, and he barely choked back the scream that formed on his tongue, coming out as a sharp release of air.

_"Scream_," it insisted, pulling it's hands free with a sucking sensation that made his stomach turn.

"Y-you first," he said.

The creature narrowed it's eyes and snapped it's jaws shut inches from his face.

Summoning his last ounce of strength, he brought his leg up, locking it around the demons, and turned the tables, rolling them both until he came out on top.

Before it had time to fight back, he snatched it's clawed hand, disgusted at the reptilian skin more so than the sound of the bone splintering as he snapped it backwards with all his might.

Letting out a startled hiss of pain, the thing's natural reaction was to draw it's hand back, but he held strong, twisting until the elbow popped, and then the shoulder.

An inhuman, earsplitting shriek almost broke his concentration, but he didn't falter, grasping the creature's useless arm by the wrist and driving the claws into it's throat.

Staring hard into the yellow eyes, he pushed the claws deeper, until he felt them meet the hard resistance of dirt on the other side.

"With your sheild," he spat, acid lacing his voice. "Or _on_ it."

It screamed again, louder, with the offense of being stabbed with it's own weapon, let alone one attached to itself.

He wasted no time. He knew a blow like that would slow it, but not kill it. Then again, he hadn't meant to kill it.

Just slow it down.

He rocketed off the prone body faster than his injured body should have allowed. Reaching his gun, he rolled, coming up just in time to see the demon, one arm hanging limply at it's side, making a final charge, and looking all for the world like the fire burning in it's eyes was that of hell itself.

He shot once.

His aim was true.

One eye suddenly gone, the demon faltered, it's brain reduced to mush in the skull cavity. The few steps it took beyond that were nothing more than the brain shutting down, but he watched it with stony eyes until it fell to the ground, and remained there, perfectly still.

Then he emptied the rest of the clip into the sonofabitch's head.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note : I realize this is a future fic, and that in all likelihood Sam would be done with school by this point... but I also figure that being out of school for so long, he's bound to have to repeat some, if not all semesters. So, for the purpose of this fic, he's still in school.

Also, for those of you who expressed concern, this is _not_ a death-fic! Promise. But you're still going to hate me at the end...

---

Sam loved California. Not just the blue skies and warm weather, and not just the freedom from the life he'd tried for so long to escape. He loved what he was doing, and as a senior, with less than a month left of school, it would soon be his life. The life he wanted, not the life his father had made for him.

He had to smile as his old way of thinking resurfaced, but immediately pushed the thought away. With everything behind him, his heart was lighter than it had been in years. He and his father were even, god help them all, getting along. Regularly keeping in touch, drawn by more than just their mutual worry about the eldest Winchester. With the demon dead, their lives back on track, they finally had the time - and the will - to be a family.

Letting the doors of the classroom shut behind him, Sam took a deep breath of fresh air and smiled. Sure, he had been prolonging what little time time left he had at college by only going part-time, but it was worth it to have the spare time to relax, hold a steady and honest job, and -

A car horn honked, catching his attention, and his smile deepened.

Hefting his backpack, he jogged toward the car at the curb, leaning into the big SUV.

"Hey there, good lookin'," Ashley's smiling face met his. "Need a ride?"

"What are you doing here?" he asked, opening the door and sliding in, setting his backpack on the floor.

"I thought you'd want to go to dinner," she said. "Celebrate?"

"What are we celebrating?" he asked, watching her as she pulled out into traffic.

"Our anniversary, Sammy!" she cried.

He cringed inwardly at the name. "Our anniversary?"

"I can't believe you forgot," she said, not taking her eyes off the road. The beginning signs of a pout crossed her angelic features.

"I'm sorry!" he apologized quickly. "But..."

She laughed suddenly. "Relax, Sam. I know you've had a lot on your mind."

He slumped forward, frowning. "Yeah, but..."

"Sam!" she said, looking over. "Seriously, don't have a fit. It's exactly six months since..."

At her prompting, Sam slapped her head. "You didn't tell me we were celebrating this, too!"

She laughed again, her blue eyes sparkling. "Come on, it's our first apartment together, it's a big deal!"

Sam sighed, but he was still smiling. "Ash, everything's a big deal to you. Last month we celebrated buying our first pet."

"So?" she asked, "that's a big deal!"

"It was a goldfish," he said, burying his face in his hands. "And a week later we had to celebrate our first fishy funeral."

She cringed. "Okay, so maybe I'm not ready for that puppy just yet."

"For the sake of dogs everywhere," he agreed.

"Anyway," she said, turning on to a side road. "I called you, but you didn't answer."

"I was in class," he laughed, amused as always at her ability to forget the most obvious things. "I had my phone on silent."

"Well, yeah," she said. "I knew that."

"Then why'd you call?"

She looked stumped for a moment. "Shut up."

He laughed again, and reached over, grabbing a few strands of her hair. "Blonde moment?"

She offered a dazzling smile. "California, born and bred."

He let go of her hair and brushed his fingers gently across her cheek. "That's why I love you, babe."

"And I thought it was just my rich daddy," she said jovially.

"Well, that and the sex," he said, tugging her hair to let her know he was teasing.

She shoved him away with one hand. "Driving here, mister!"

"Fine," he relented, and settled for digging in his pocket for his cell phone.

_Three missed calls._

Shit.

Dialing his voicemail, he reached over to turn the radio, already quiet, down completely. After punching in his password, he sat back and watched the scenery pass as he retrieved the messages.

_"Hey, Sam! It's me, just wanted to see if you wanted a ride after class. Whatever, I'll be there. Call me, okay? Love you."_

He smiled over at her for a moment.

After Jess he'd begun to doubt his ability to love again. He'd been interested in women, of course, but his fear kept him from taking it any further than that. At first he didn't want to risk anyone getting hurt, but even after they were free from their curse, he was afraid. Afraid that he might not be able to give himself like that again, afraid to lose it if he did.

Then Ashley came along, a friend of a friend who tackled every wall he put up, and made him happier than he'd been in ages. They'd been together just over a year, and six months ago, to the day, they'd moved into together.

He was in love -

_"Hello, Mr. Bradley? This is Mercy Hospital in Brookfield, Kentucky. You were listed as next of kin for a patient brought in last night. Um, Dean Bradley? Please call us back at your earliest convenience."_

The woman proceeded to rattle off a phone number, thank him, and hang up, without any further explanation.

Sam's heart sank, a sudden chill racing up his spine. His palms were damp, and he had to wipe them on his jeans in order to keep a grip on the phone.

"Sam?" Ashley was saying, and from the sound of it, it wasn't the first time she had spoken. "Sam, what's wrong?"

"I... I need to go home," he said. "Take me home."

"Sammy, what - "

"It's Sam!" he snapped, immediately regretting it.

Her concerned expression only grew as she looked at him. In one fluid motion she flicked on the turn signal, pulled to the side of the road, and put the car in park.

Facing him, ignoring the honks from drivers who had swerved to avoid her sudden stop, she drew her hands into her own. "Sam, I'm going to ignore that, but I need to know what's wrong. You look like your best friend just died."

He faced her, letting the phone drop to his lap, the last message droning on unheard.

"I think he did."

She laughed, and then realized he wasn't joking. "What?"

"I got a message," he said, eyes fixed on the dashboard. "Some hospital in Kentucky."

"What's in Kentucky?" Ashley asked, gripping his hands harder.

Sam looked up, face pale.

"My brother."

---

He was on the road by six o' clock, behind the wheel of Ashley's blue Durango, driving like a bat out of hell.

Like his brother behind the wheel of a hot rod, he thought with a grim smile.

He couldn't remember getting a call like this before. No, usually he was right beside Dean when he got his ass kicked to hell and back. Usually he was the one to patch him up, or drive him to a hospital if it was something their well stocked kits couldn't treat. He'd been by his side through it all, stitching up his brother's wounds and waking him every few hours to make sure his most recent concussion wouldn't be his last.

He'd been the one to save his brother's life when doctor's gave him a month to live. And an innocent life or not, damned if he wouldn't do it again. He didn't like admitting that, but he couldn't pretend, not to himself.

They hadn't heard from him in three years... three god forsaken years of wondering if he was alive or face down dead in a gutter somewhere. And now, he'd made his return. Not by choice, but because someone had found him on the side of the road, thought he was dead, and called the cops. It took them twenty-five minutes from dispatch to arrival, to figure out the corpse spotted in the dust was not a corpse at all.

Now the nurses told him, hurry, he's fading fast.

Hurry, we're not sure...

And so he hurried.

Sam fucking flew.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Ohhh, crap. It's been forever, I know. Please don't hurt me! ducks

No excuses this time (work! work!), so I'm just going to post the rest of this and deal with it as it comes. There are a few chapters left after this, and I'm still pretty sure you'll hate the ending, so bear with me and again... don't hurt the writer!

---

The drive to Kentucky was just over 2,220 miles. Thirty-five hours if he drove straight through at an average of 60 miles an hour. Sam pushed ninety and made it in twenty six, stopping only for gas and bathroom breaks, and to sleep for a few hours, curled up in the front seat with his head against the window.

It was nothing short of a miracle that he was not pulled over before he made it to the hospital, but he didn't slow until he was parked in front of a tall building proclaiming 'Brookfield Hospital', safe, sound, and without a ticket.

Torn between a desperate need to run inside and make sure his brother was okay, and a dread unlike any he had ever known, he remained in the car, still buckled in, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. His breath came in heavy pants, as if he'd run the entire distance, and he was gripped in a cold sweat of panic.

Three years...

He had no idea what to expect. Had no idea if his brother was even going to make it.

That thought shot through with a jolt, and he spurred himself into action, snatching the keys from the ignition and practically throwing himself out of the car. He hit the automatic lock button on the remote, shoved it into his pocket, and took off at a run, easily crossing the parking lot in seconds, and dashed through the double doors.

Narrowly avoiding an orderly pushing a wheelchair, and receiving an angry look for it, he slid to a stop at the front desk.

The nurse behind said desk looked up, startled.

"Dean Bradley?" he gasped, racking his brain for the right alias.

"Oh," the woman said, closing her mouth. "Yes...um..."

Sam almost groaned as the woman shuffled through some papers, then checked the computer.

Finally, she looked back up, "You'll have to check with the nurses station on the seventh floor, sir."

He didn't bother returning her comforting smile as he once would have. He spun on his heel, passed the closed silver doors of the elevators, and took the stairs two at a time. Even if it wasn't faster, it would do away with the helpless feeling he was sure to feel as he waited for the elevator to arrive, for the doors to open and shut again, and climb the stories slowly, stopping and starting...

He burst onto the 7th floor, drawing more attention to himself, and raced to the desk in the middle of the corridor, placing his hands on the desk to steady himself.

Panting, he started to speak.

Raising an eyebrow, the woman there beat him to it.

"I know you have a good reason for causing a scene on my floor, boy," the aging woman said, watching him over the rims of her glasses. "But take a minute and breathe."

"Bradley?" he said, ignoring her.

Her face went blank for a moment. "Ah...we were wondering when you might show."

Still breathing heavily, he apologized. "Sorry, I drove from California..."

Clearing her throat, the woman fixed him with a steady gaze. "Son..."

Sam's stomach sank.

"Is he okay?" he asked, his tone pleading.

She sighed and stared for another moment. "He's resting comfortably."

Which told him nothing, and left the opportunity for a plethora of bad news.

"So?" he prodded. "Can I see him? Is he alright?"

"You can see him," the nurse said, still not answering his most pressing question. "Come with me."

As the woman stood, her white shoes squeaking against the linoleum, Sam grabbed her arm gently.

She looked back at him, then down at his arm.

He withdrew it, and took in a shaky breathe. "Please. Is he okay?"

His tone must have finally hit her, because she shook her head sadly, and said, "Yes, and no."

Before he could ask any more, she held up her hand.

"He's not awake, but for the most part, he's out of danger. He's pretty beaten up... we don't know what happened, but it must have been something terrible. He's going to need some time before he's back to normal."

"What do you mean you don't know what happened?" Sam asked, his mind already thinking up a dozen stories.

"The marks...were odd. Without further information, we can't know for sure. We'll have to wait to see if he wakes up."

Sam flinched. She hadn't said _when_ she'd said _if._

_Resting comfortably, my ass._

"He -"

She interrupted him again. "Follow me."

He complied silently, and as she led him down the brightly lit hallway, she filled him in on his condition.

"He was brought in two nights ago. It wasn't my shift, but from what I've heard, he was in pretty bad shape...he'd lost a lot of blood. It was pretty touch and go for a while, but they got him stitched up and did a transfusion. We weren't sure if he was going to make it, but he stabilized this morning, so the doctor's are hopeful he's going to make a full recovery."

She paused just outside room 726, and let her hand rest on the door for a moment.

"Are you close?"

"We haven't spoken in a while, but...he's my brother," Sam replied.

_For all that means._

She nodded, and frowned.

"What?" he asked, interpreting her look. "What's wrong?"

She smiled softly, sadly. "In most cases, the patient would have woken up by now. There were no signs of a head injury, but... we're just not sure."

Sam started to ask what that was supposed to mean, but she opened the door, and he forgot any questions he had, swallowed his dread, and followed her inside.

"The doctor will be in shortly. I'll leave you two alone," she said, patting his shoulder in a gesture of comfort as she left, shutting the door behind her.

_Gee, thanks_, Sam thought, standing there, feeling suddenly abandoned and alone. And scared out of his mind.

Because there in the only occupied bed, was what had become of his brother.

Rooted to the spot where he stood, Sam didn't know whether to cry or throw up.

Dean was lying in the bed, swallowed by a light blue blanket and wrapped in miles of gauze. He'd expected this, even schooled himself on what he would see, and not to freak out when he did. But this -he hadn't been expecting this.

In the bed, a gaunt man with scraggly, light brown hair, that was in dire need of a cut and combing. A bruised face with too-sharp angles and dark circles under the eyes. Hollow cheekbones and skin the color of ash. Something told him this wasn't just a result of this recent injury.

Taking a step forward, he tried not to stare at the oxygen tube clipped to his brother's nose, at the IV that disappeared into his thin wrist, or the way his larger than life brother seemed to have shrunk into a small, prone figure that was toeing the line between life and death.

"H-hey, Dean," he said, cringing at how loud and shaky his voice sounded in the tomb-like room.

There was no tell-tale flinch, or any indication to show his brother was faking sleep.

There was a chair directly across from the bed, but Sam could not bring himself to sit. Instead he stood at the end of the bed, feeling awkward and suddenly lost.

The change in Dean was apparent even as he slept on, unaware of the presence at his bedside. His stomach sank as he wondered just what changes he would see when his brother woke.

He wasn't expecting this.

He had no idea what he was expecting, but it wasn't this, and now he had no idea where anything stood.

It was then that he realized he was shaking. Trembling in fear, breathing hard, and feeling all for the world like he might pull a scene and faint.

He had to get out.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer : I still don't own it!

---

Sam slammed his fist angrily into the coffee machine, the loud thunk and the tingling sensation it sent up his arm doing little to alleviate the anger and tension now coursing through his veins.

He was pissed, pissed that Dean was still out there, doing this when there was no reason to. Taking risks and getting hurt with no one to watch his back.

He was scared that his brother wouldn't wake up, that he'd lost too much blood, or would develop an infection, or just never regain consciousness.

Most of all, he felt like a damn coward.

He couldn't even stay in the same room with his brother for more than ten minutes before he ran off, too frightened by the state Dean was in, too afraid to face his brother after all these years, even if he couldn't face Sam back.

Burying his face in his hands, Sam sighed deeply.

There was no way he could stay out in the hallway ignoring the situation forever. No matter how appealing the idea was. Instead, he fed a dollar into the machine, bought an entire cup of bitter coffee, and drank it on his way back to the room.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and stepped back inside.

A man in an official looking white coat was standing at the end of the bed, reading the chart placed there. At the sound of the door, he turned around, and smiled.

"Mr. Bradley, I presume?" he asked warmly.

"Uh...yeah," Sam nodded, clearing his throat nervously. "Sam."

"Dr. Griffin," the man introduced himself, holding out a hand for Sam to shake.

Accepting the hand, Sam wasted no time before asking, "How is he?"

In an instant, the doctor's face went serious.

"You're his brother?"

Annoyed, Sam answered, "Yes."

"I don't know any polite way to say this, so I won't beat around the bush. What was your brother doing here?" Dr. Griffin asked.

"I - what?" Sam sputtered. "Doing?"

"Yes," the doctor continued. "He's got an Arkansas ID..."

Sam had only a moment to wonder what his brother was doing with an Arkansas ID before he spoke up, "He travels. Traveled. He was just passing through, I guess."

"You guess?" Dr. Griffin asked, but didn't linger on that question, opting for another. "The wounds your brother sustained were... unusual. We called in the specialists, but they didn't match any weapons or any animal related injuries documented. We're stumped."

Sam opened his mouth, shut it. Nothing he could say would help anyway.

"Aside from numerous contusions and lacerations, most of which were superficial, he's sustained several, as I said before, unexplained puncture wounds to the stomach and lower back. He's got some older wounds that we _can_ identify as knife wounds, possibly defensive wounds," Dr. Griffin explained, leading the boy closer to the bed. "As you can see, we've patched him up the best we can. It took over a hundred stitches to close the gashes, and we went through a few bags of blood to replace that which he lost."

As he spoke, he indicated the different parts of his body, pulling the blanket down to show him the dressings that covered him from waist to neck, along with the gauze wrapped around Dean's right hand.

From there, Sam could see the shadows of the bruises that marred his brother's body, gracing his arms and shoulders, even his jaw and temple. He could also see the new scars Dean had acquired, a thin slice through his eyebrow, and the most noticeable, the thick, raised scars that graced his wrists.

Dr. Griffin followed his gaze, and sighed, offering a sympathetic gaze. "Does your brother have a history of instability?"

Sam's head shot up, shaking his head vehemently. "He wouldn't. He...he wouldn't."

"His records turned nothing up," the doctor said soothingly. "We don't want to assume, but also don't want to candy-coat things. There's not a lot of ways to accidentally slit your wrists."

Sam swallowed hard, and he insisted, pleadingly, "He wouldn't."

The doctor smiled placatingly, "There are more important things to worry about, anyway."

Sam nodded slowly. "Is he going to wake up?"

Dr. Griffin smiled, "We hope."

"You hope?" Sam exploded. "You _hope_?!"

The doctor's expression went from shock to understanding. "I'm sorry I can't offer much more than you. Given the extent of his injuries, his system is in pretty severe shock. Think of it as the body's way of devoting all it's energy to healing itself."

Sam rubbed a hand over his weary eyes, and nodded. "But he will wake up."

"I won't lie to you, Sam, I won't," Doctor Griffin said, pinning Sam with a stare. "But his chances are good."

Sam let out a deep breath, turned his attention to his brother, and nodded. "Okay."

"When he does -

Sam smiled at the doctor's obvious choice of words.

"- will you be taking him home with you?"

Sam faltered. Home... he hadn't even thought of Ash, of what would happen once Dean woke up, of anything. "I...yeah. I will."

"Good," the doctor said. "He'll need constant care and supervision. These wounds need to be taken seriously. He'll need bed rest, and tending to the wounds to prevent infections. I don't recommend much activity for the first week or so after we clear him to go home. And after that, he'll probably need some physical therapy to regain use of his muscles, nothing serious, just some exercises he can do at home. I'll supply you with those when the time comes."

Sam frowned, taking in the new information, swallowing yet another problem.

"And of course, there are the mental repercussions you may have to be prepared for as well. Trauma such as this can have unexpected side effects."

Sam nodded, almost immediately shoving that thought away. He'd dealt with serious injury before, he'd be able to do it again.

"I'll take care of him," Sam said.

---

Voices.

They floated around him, filling the blackness, not comforting, but putting him on edge.

He couldn't see.

There was nothing. From experience, he knew he was fighting his way to consciousness, but he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to make it there.

A familiar voice...

Sam?

---

The doctor went, and left Sam with the sound of the door shutting stuck in his brain. It was a formal finality he could have done without, and he wasn't even sure why the sound stuck as it did. But as he approached the bed, the sound of the door shutting hung in the air, rang in his ears.

"Dean?" he said, his voice choked.

As before, there was no answer.

Dean was asleep.

Feeling safer, sure his brother would not awake, and feeling slightly ashamed at that, Sam sat in the chair beside the bed. Nervously, he jiggled his legs, alternating left and right without realizing that he couldn't sit still.

"Um..."

He swallowed hard, trying not to look at his brother's pale face, but unable to look away.

Thick dark lashes outlined his closed eyes, drawing attention to the fact that Dean slept on.

Sam bit his lip, suddenly afraid he might cry.

He reached out, resting his hand on Dean's.

"I don't even know what to say to you," he said, his fingers unconsciously finding the thick, raised scar on Dean's wrist, rubbing it gently with his thumb. "What the hell did you do, huh?"

He felt tears prick at his eyes.

"Where the _fuck_ have you been, Dean?" he hissed, turning his brother's hand over so he didn't have to look at the two inch long welt of skin.

He stood up angrily, pushed back with force enough to send the chair clattering backward.

"The fuck, Dean?" he asked again.

Then, turning away, closing his eyes against the tears.

"Wake up."


	10. Chapter 10

He opened his eyes, and knew pain.

Like a flash, he went from blissful ignorance, to a sudden awakening of every nerve in his body. And they were on _fire._

He gasped involuntarily as the full impact of the pain hit him, and groaned softly. This was bad. He'd probably had worse, but he couldn't remember when.

Through hazy eyes, he saw bright light, and wondered.

Last thing he remembered, he'd been trudging through the woods, on his way back to the Impala, bleeding and stumbling over his own feet. He remembered the demon, the sweet taste of victory as he'd hissed the words his father had raised him on, and then the realization that he was bleeding too much. He remembered that desperate need to get back to the motel and the gnawing fear that he might not make it with enough dexterity to sew his wounds by himself.

And then, he remembered nothing.

Intuition and memory, rather than cognitive thinking, told him he was in a hospital.

Every damned ceiling looked the same, the white tiles and fluorescent lightning that burned at his eyes.

He had to get out.

A tentative test, he tensed the muscles of his legs.

Sore, but they worked.

Arms, weak and wobbly, aching from the fight, and how long ago had that been?

Tensing his abs would have been pure torture, he was alert enough to know that, and so he didn't bother, instead blinking to try to clear his vision.

He looked around, taking in the familiar hospital fare - stark white walls, machines he would never know the purposes of, a curtain to separate the room, an empty chair, and his escape, the door.

With trembling fingers, he reached up, feeling the tube feeding him oxygen, and removed it, taking a deep but shaky breath.

Resting for a moment, and dismayed that that little amount of action had sapped his little remaining strength away, he closed his eyes.

The IV would have to go, too, he reasoned, and felt it out with his other hand, wincing as the movement pulled at his stitches.

Stitches.

Fuck, he'd been skewered.

He pulled at the edges of the tape until they let up and slid the needle from the back of his hand, wincing at the sting, and then dropped back to the sheets, exhausted.

At this rate, he decided, he wasn't getting anywhere anytime soon.

Opening his eyes again, and still not used to the bright lights, he couldn't help but groan again.

He was in no shape to even attempt sitting, that much was obvious, but he had no choice. There would be doctors, questions, possibly police. None of which he was prepared to deal with. He tried to remember what alias he'd been moving under recently, but his mind came up with no details, and he bit back a curse.

He did the only the he could; he sat up. Not knowing how he accomplished it, quite possibly having blacked out halfway through it, he opened his eyes and found himself upright. The room spun as he fumbled with awkward fingers, barely strong enough to lower the railing on the bed.

Knowing if he waited, he would lose his adrenaline rush, he swung his feet over the side of the bed, almost wincing when they touched the cold floor. He sat there for a minute, hand gripping the collapsed bed rail, staring at the blinds drawn tightly across the only window in the room.

Panting and sweating from exertion, he told himself this pain was nothing.

He had a job to do.

---

Sam clutched the papers detailing Dean's physical therapy in his hand, knowing the doctor had given them to him so soon only to lift his spirits and reinforce the idea that his brother would be okay. He appreciated it, but now he was faced with the realization that even if his brother did wake up, it would be a long time before he was back on his feet.

He dug in his pocket for his cell phone, had another realization when he saw his father's name on the caller ID.

Not only would he have to tell Ash about his brother's 'inexplicable' injuries, but he would have to break the news to his father.

Noting to himself that he would need to call them both soon, he tucked his phone away and folded the papers neatly, stowing them in his back pocket.

Rounding the corner to his brother's room, Sam looked up just in time to see his brother stumble into the hallway on unsteady legs.

"Dean!" he yelled, rushing to his brother's side.

The older Winchester didn't even look up, swaying suddenly, and going limp.

Sam grabbed him at the last second, bracing himself to accept his brother's weight. What he expected was less than what he got, and he almost stumbled from overcompensation.

"Help!" he called, sinking to the floor with Dean's back against him.

A nurse poked her head around the corner at the end of the hall, and with wide eyes, rushed towards them, yelling out to the other personnel.

Cradling Dean's head in his lap, he looked up at the kind face of the nurse kneeling next to them.

"Help," he pleaded softly.

---

"You gave us quite a scare," the greying doctor said, shining a light into his eyes.

Dean didn't blink.

"What were you thinking, Mr. Bradley, getting out of bed like that?" Dr. Griffin continued, snapping the light off and clipping it to his pocket. "You've been very seriously injured. You need to stay off your feet and give your body time to heal."

He said nothing.

Sam cleared his throat nervously. "Is... is he okay?"

The doctor frowned.

Sam held his breath.

"His pupils are equal and responsive," the doctor said, still staring at Dean's bruised face. "Mr. Bradley, do you know where you are?"

Dean didn't answer, his heavy-lidded gaze remained fixated on the wall.

"Do you know the year?" Dr. Griffin tried again.

Again no answer.

Sam shifted his stance, dread settling in the pit of his stomach.

"Mr. Bradley, can you tell me your first name?"

"Dean?" Sam interrupted, his tone pleading.

His brother didn't bat an eyelash.

The doctor straightened, sighed. "We'll have to do some tests."

"Tests?"

"MRI, EKG," the doctor started, then caught himself. "Just some tests to make sure there's no brain damage."

His heart sank to his feet.

"Brain damage?" he asked, his voice breaking.

The doctor smiled sadly, and offered no more than a shrug. "We need to see if there's a reason he's not speaking. I'll make the arrangements."

Sam nodded and bit his lip, watching as the doctor left.

When the door swung shut, he let out a breath.

"Dean?" he asked softly.

Still his brother sat, the bed's position the only thing keeping him upright. He didn't blink, didn't hardly breathe.

Sam was scared.

"I need you to talk to me, Dean. I need to know you're okay," he said. "_Please."_

Silence.

"Damn you, Dean," Sam said, turning away.

This time, sold on the idea that Dean could not see, let alone hear him, he let the tears fall.

---

He heard the sniffles and uneven gasps, saw the boy's shoulders shake from the corner of his eye. It wasn't the body wracking kind of crying, but the stifled sobs of a person trying to pretend they weren't really crying.

Any sympathy he might have felt had been lost long ago. Long ago, he might even have been frightened at how callous he was for thinking something like that. Now, it was all he could to to ignore the kid, instead focusing his attention on the wall, on his breathing, on not blinking.

Anger flared beneath the surface.

How dare he show up now, crying and cursing him, when it was his fault all along.

No, it was his own fault he was in this bed, a mistake, a slip up that wouldn't happen again. HE would train harder, an extra hundred pushups a day, two hundred, even. Of course, to manage that, he supposed he would have to start eating properly again, and that though did nothing but turn his empty stomach.

Normalcy.

It was overrated, obviously, and he doubted he'd ever get it back. Hell, the very idea of normalcy, what had become normal to them, to him, would be seen as seriously fucked to the rest of the world. Nothing to get worked up over, then.

It was getting easier and easier to talk himself out of caring about things.

Briefly, he wondered if one day he would stop caring about all the helpless people out there, at the mercy of demons and ghouls. And in turn, wondered if he was helping them because they needed it, or because it gave him what he needed to keep living.

His wrist burned where those fingers had touched his scar.

He wondered what the boy must think of him now.

How pathetic, how sorry and stupid...

He wouldn't think how bad it must have been. Wouldn't in a million years know the feel of a sweaty body pressing him up against some wall, defiling him, and walking away with fifty bucks pressed tightly into his fist. Wouldn't ever have to burn his clothes in a dumpster, because he could never wear them again without remembering what he'd done. Wouldn't have to decide that knocking over convenience stores or beating the money out of people who didn't deserve it, could ever be a better option.

He wouldn't know the crippling pain of being so alone it killed you off a little bit at a time, or have to worry about finding someone clean enough but immoral enough to give you just a moment to feel like you're needed or wanted or - God forbid -loved. Wouldn't ever know the solace to be found in thinking there was escape in death, if nowhere else. Or the knowledge that he was too weak to do it, so he just went on living anyway.

Damn him?

No.

No, there was no need.

He was a damned man, already.


	11. Chapter 11

---

Sam visited his brother every day, living out of a local hotel, coming in when visiting hours began and not leaving until they kicked him out. For all the good it seemed to do, he stayed by his non-responsive brother's side, waiting through the tests, ignoring the dismay of the doctors when nothing showed up. He stayed, sitting, talking sometimes and silent others, always hoping for a reaction, and never getting one.

'Like talking to a brick wall," he commented, looking up from the novel he'd taken to reading aloud.

He was hoping for a reaction. To his question, or his presnece. A roll of the eyes, or a sigh, or an indignant shout to pick some better reading material or shut the hell up.

Two weeks, and he still had nothing.

Marking his page in the book, Sam stared hard at his brother, the bed raised so that Dean was at a comfortable incline - or what he hoped was comfortable. It was hard to make someone comfortable with stitches in your stomach, he knew, but even harder to make someone comfortable when they wouldn't tell you if you were ripping those stitches out.

"There's an idea," he said softly to himself.

"What is?" a voice asked from behind him.

Startled, Sam twisted in the chair.

"Oh, Dad, hey," Sam said. "Came to say goodbye?"

John Winchester had shown up over a week ago, looking frazzled and worried, like a parent should under the circumstances. They'd both thought that if anything could, his father would be the shock needed to break Dean from his unresponsive state. John had stuck around, to no avail.

"Brought lunch," John said, making a face as he held up Dean's tray.

He set it on the table beside the bed, and positioned it over Dean's lap.

"Lunch, son," he said softly. Then, turning to Sam, "They say if he doesn't start eating they're going to have to start tube-feeding him."

Sam made a face. "But, Dad -"

John held out a hand and shrugged helplessly. "They've already waited long enough, Sam. He's too skinny. He's malnourished."

Sam sighed, knowing the doctor and the nurses had held off far longer than was standard procedure, and knowing they could probably get in trouble for it. But everytime he thought of them sticking a tube down his brother's nose, he blanched and insisted that Dean would "wake up" soon. That couldn't they give it just a while longer, please?

Following with what Dean called his 'puppy eyes', the nurse or doctor would usually heave a sigh and relent, wag a finger, and tell him just another day.

"Come on, Dean," he pleaded, scooting his chair closer to his brother's bed, and picking up the spoon sitting in a bowl of soup. "It looks...edible."

John chuckled and took up residence in the second chair, watching his son's face for any sign of a change. But as usual, the only movement from his son was the occasional blink, and even those were rare.

Damned if he could explain that. His son disappeared for three years, showed up half-dead, and now he wouldn't so much as look at anyone. His first thought had been brain-damage, but the doctor's assured him his son's brain was fine. In fact, nearly everything was at 100 percent again. The wounds were healing nicely, bruises fading.

John sighed.

"Dad?" Sam asked, placing a hand on his father's shoulder.

John tried to smile. "I'm fine, son."

"Sure sound fine," Sam said sarcastically.

John raised a brow, and Sam laughed. "Come on, Dad."

"I'm just worried," John said. "He should have come around by now. He's awake, for God's sake, what's wrong with him?"

Sam cringed at the pain evident in his father's voice. His eyes fell to Dean, who sat unmoving.

"I don't know," he sighed. "The doctor's said it could be some post-traumatic-stress thingie, or it could be something else, or -"

"A lot of good that is," John interrupted. "We're paying an arm and a leg for hospital care that can't even get my boy well enough speak."

"Maybe..." Sam trailed off, frowning.

"What?"

"Maybe he doesn't want to," Sam said, amazed that it hadn't dawned on him before.

"What are you saying?" John asked, eyes narrowed.

"Maybe he's... giving us the silent treatment?" he said for lack of better words.

John gave a bark of laughter. "That's one hell of a treatment, Sammy."

"Well, I - " Sam started.

"Look, Sam, I know Dean's stubborn, but he's not that stubborn," John said. "Even _he_ couldn't give us the silent treatment for two weeks."

"Dad, it's _Dean,_" Sam said. "The guy who gave us the cold shoulder for three _years_?"

"But Sam, it's a lot easier to turn off your phone and ignore it than it is to ignore a bunch of worried people shoving stuff in your face," John said, spreading his hands to indicate the room. "To be poked and prodded and stuck here and not say a thing? Like you said, it's Dean."

Sam sighed and nodded.

"Dean hates hospitals," he said needlessly, fixing his gaze on his brother's dull green eyes.

John followed his gaze, and laughed softly, sadly. "He really needs a haircut."

"Yeah."

"He's starting to look like you."

Sam reached out, for the first time since the day he arrived at the hospital, to brush the hair from Dean's eyes.

Dean flinched.

Sam drew his hand back like he'd been burned.

"Dad, did you -"

"Yeah."

The tone was clipped as they leaned in closely, fixing him with piercing stares.

"Dean?" Sam asked.

"Son," John coaxed.

Dean's eyes were staring again, but neither man missed the intensity in the stare.

They drew back.

Dean's face remained impassive, but his chest was heaving, and the monitors behind him spiked, showing the increase in heartbeat and blood pressure.

"Dean," Sam pleaded.

---

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He'd messed up, and he was beating himself up for it.

Hoping as he had, that if they thought he was a vegetable they might just give up and go away. And then he could make his break, get away and never have to worry about them again.

But no, all it took was one involuntary spasm of facial muscles, and the jig was up.

Now they were staring at him, speaking to him in hurried tones, pleading and ordering him to look at them, to wake up, to say something, anything.

He bore holes in the wall with his eyes, concentrating everything he had on ignoring them and building up his defenses again. Let them touch him, he wouldn't fucking_ blink._

And suddenly, he wanted to cry.

Wanted to give in, give up, and just stop fighting all of it.

He was so tired of fighting.

He was weak, he was pathetic, he wasn't fit to call himself one of them. So, just like that, he wasn't. At one point, he was proud to bear his father's name, to impress him and to watch his brother's eyes light up with that stupid hero-worship kids seem to have for their siblings. He was proud to fight and watch his brother's back, but that had all died long ago.

Because damn it, he had told them.

Told them he was barely hanging on, that all he wanted was just to be back to normal. Normal for them.

But they didn't want that, and it was all he knew.

They gave up on him, but not each other.

He saw them sitting there with their arms around each other, talking in hushed, excited tones, and wondered why the hell he never fit with them. Why it had been so easy for them to abandon that life and why he couldn't let it go.

Just what was so fucked up inside him that all he knew was death?

His scars itched.

He knew countless ways to kill. Monsters, demons, human beings...

And yet he couldn't even kill himself.

He'd survived, not because someone had bigger plans for him, but because he couldn't even kill himself right. He couldn't do that one thing right.

He was a fucking failure.

He should have let that demon take him, because it was no different than killing himself.

With his shield, or on it.

He had dropped his honor years ago, so what did it matter if he took the easy way out? Who cared if he disgraced his family anymore than he already had? They didn't, he was sure. Let them assume, if they found his body in a ditch, that he'd died doing the right thing. That he'd been cut down by a worthy opponent, not that he'd practically begged to be skewered.

For the first time in ages, he opened his mouth to speak.

"You -"

His voice cracked from lack of use, from lack of liquid and sustenance.

He felt the collective breath they sucked in, and fought a cringe when they drew closer, eyes wide, all ears.

And him, all scars.

He shut his eyes against the world, swallowed hard, and tried again.

"You... should have... let me...die."


	12. Chapter 12

---

"Sam, you know I have to go."

Sam sighed and nodded, forcing a smile, trying to convince himself his father had changed. He had, a part of him knew that, but another part of him would always harbor that fear of waking up without a father. John had spent so much of his life running from his problems, focusing instead on the bigger picture, the Demon, that it had become second nature. He'd said it himself - it was easier to turn off the phone and ignore it than face his sons, and know he would run anyway.

Two days since Dean had spoken, and if anything, he'd regressed. Not speaking, not moving, not doing a damn thing but staring and sleeping. The doctors had resorted, having been left no other choice, to insert a feeding tube. Dean had no protested, not even flinched.

Sam rubbed a hand over the stubble collecting on his chin and sighed again. "Just... keep in touch, okay?"

"Of course," John said. "I expect updates if anything changes. Even if it doesn't. Call."

Sam forced a smile and nodded.

John fixed him with an intense stare, then half smiled himself. "I never pictured the reunion to be quite like this."

Sam felt any resolve he'd built up start to crumble.

_I will not cry, I will not cry, _he told himself. _Especially not in front of Dad._

"I don't think any of us did," he offered lamely. "I don't think Dean meant for it to happen...ever."

John's eyes turned sharp. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing," Sam said quickly. "I just..."

Under his father's piercing gaze, he squirmed.

"Son," John prodded.

"Tell me you missed those scars on his wrists," Sam said softly, unblinking.

"No..." John sighed. "I tried to excuse them. Some spells, rituals, call for human blood. I had hoped..."

Sam looked down at his worn shoes, and blinked rapidly.

"Sam, whatever the problem, we'll work it out, I swear," John said, the paragon of a perfect father in that moment. "It's gonna take time, but we've beat a hell of a lot worse."

Sam smiled absently; it was true, they'd overcome worse odds more often than most people washed their laundry.

"Okay, Dad," he said, looking up and squaring his shoulders. "You're right."

"I'll call you as soon as I get there," John promised, as if he knew his son's unconscious fears.

Sam nodded and took a deep breathe.

John reached out suddenly and clasped his hand, staring into his son's eyes, and promised, "He'll be okay."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, squeezing his father's hand. "He will."

John said goodbye then, glancing once down the hall where his first born lay unresponsive, then disappeared down the stairwell, leaving Sam alone, again.

He sighed, and headed for his brother's room, dread gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Somehow, having his father here had helped. Of course it had helped. His father could take over the roll of protector, the one who had to answer all the doctor's important questions and make all the hard decisions. His father had given him support, someone to sit with, to hold Dean's hand and watch the clock with.

Now he was alone, again.

The sudden chirping of his phone startled him, sounding loud in the empty hallway. He answered quickly, to cut out the noise.

"Hello?"

"Hey, gorgeous," a perky voice sounded.

"Ash!" he said, immediately feeling a weight lift off his chest.

"How's it going?" she asked, her voice serious now.

"Dad just left," he said quietly, ducking inside the waiting room so he wouldn't disturb anyone, nurses and patients alike. "I'm kind of scared to head back to that room alone."

There was silence on the other end of the phone before her hesitant voice came back.

"Sam... when are you going to be home?"

His stomach sank.

"I don't know, babe, I want to be there, you know I do," he said. "But I can't just leave Dean here."

"Look, he left you for what, three years? He didn't want you then, Sam, just because he's hurt doesn't mean you suddenly owe him something," she said quietly. "I mean, it's wrong of him to suddenly show up and it's like your presence is demanded halfway across the country from your life, your home."

_Home is a black muscle car, _he thought without hesitation._ Home is hotel rooms and Dad and Dean._

Out loud, he said, "He almost _died_, Ash!"

"I know, Sammy, but -"

"It's Sam," he said. "And he's family."

He hung up, forcefully shoving the phone back into the pocket it came from, breathing heavily, teeth clenched. He would call her later, when he'd calmed down, he reasoned. Because right now...

Angrily, he stood up and burst out of the waiting room, fuming.

How could she even say that? He knew she was just upset at his sudden absence, but that gave her no right to say those things about his brother.

His brother.

Sam suddenly felt like crying.

His shell of a brother.

Outside the door to that shell's room, he inhaled a deep, cleansing breath, and psyched himself up for another rousing night of sleeping in an uncomfortable chair, praying dawn would bring a change.

He opened the door -

- and forgot to breathe out.

The bed was empty, the sheets rumpled, IV and oxygen tube laying on the sheets along with a few bright red specks of blood.

Spinning on his heel, he ran to the nurses station.

"Terri!" he said, speaking to the young nurse sitting at the desk.

The red-head looked up, startled. "Yeah?"

"Where'd they take Dean?" he panted.

"Take?" she questioned, her brow furrowing. "Nowhere, he's in his room."

_No_, Sam thought. _He's not._

Dean was gone.

---

He remembered every second of his escape - teetering on shaky legs from the hospital, all stealth and shadow, pausing once on the second floor landing to empty the contents of his stomach - minimal - from exertion. The feel of stitches tearing and skin parting was one he was familiar, though not yet comfortable with, and easily ignored. The dizziness that surrounded him was only a deterrent from pausing, because one moment to rest and he knew he would not have the strength to get back up.

He remembered the cab, sitting in front of the hospital as if fate had placed it there for his convenience. The driver looked back with a bored expression when he slid into the back seat, as if half dead people in stolen hospital scrubs asked for rides all the time. He rasped out the directions he'd memorized, and sat stiffly against the seat, watching the small town pass by. When they got to the hotel where his brother and father - up until today - had been staying. His heart swelled with relief at the sight of his baby parked in the far end of the lot, and he told the cabbie to wait, that he'd be back with money.

He entered the hotel room easily, pretending to stagger the short walk to the door and fumble with the keys, so no one would know he was picking the lock. It was easy, and he slipped inside as if he belonged there, noting that his belongings were there, neatly stacked on a chair by the dresser. A quick inventory told him nothing was missing, though he didn't need to guess that it had been rifled through.

He dressed as quickly as his injuries allowed, and paused to steal his brother's knit beanie from his bag. Pulling it low over his too-long hair, he added sunglasses, and swallowed a dry laugh. He looked too much like a celebrity trying to fly beneath the paparazzi's radar, but it seemed to do the trick. He walked quickly to the car, and pulled out into the street, passing the yellow cab as he went.

The driver never looked twice.

He drove for as long as he could stand - exactly ten hours and twelve minutes. Somewhere outside Kentucky, he stopped, booked a room, and stayed there for the next month. A few days into his recovery in that tiny room, his fever spiked, and nearly killed him.

The events of his escape were as clear as day to him, but that month was a blur. His phone never rang, or if it did, he wasn't awake enough to hear it.

After that month, he packed up, and moved on, with twenty pounds lost, and more scars than he could count.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N : ducks!

Don't say I didn't warn you! Here's the final chapter...

---

He remembered every second of his escape - teetering on shaky legs from the hospital, all stealth and shadow, pausing once on the second floor landing to empty the contents of his stomach - minimal - from exertion. The feel of stitches tearing and skin parting was one he was familiar, though not yet comfortable with, and easily ignored. The dizziness that surrounded him was only a deterrent from pausing, because one moment to rest and he knew he would not have the strength to get back up.

He remembered the cab, sitting in front of the hospital as if fate had placed it there for his convenience. The driver looked back with a bored expression when he slid into the back seat, as if half dead people in stolen hospital scrubs asked for rides all the time. He rasped out the directions he'd memorized, and sat stiffly against the seat, watching the small town pass by. When they got to the hotel where his brother and father - up until today - had been staying. His heart swelled with relief at the sight of his baby parked in the far end of the lot, and he told the cabbie to wait, that he'd be back with money.

He entered the hotel room easily, pretending to stagger the short walk to the door and fumble with the keys, so no one would know he was picking the lock. It was easy, and he slipped inside as if he belonged there, noting that his belongings were there, neatly stacked on a chair by the dresser. A quick inventory told him nothing was missing, though he didn't need to guess that it had been rifled through.

He dressed as quickly as his injuries allowed, noting that he needed to add another hole or two to his belt, and paused to steal his brother's knit beanie from his bag. Pulling it low over his too-long hair, he added sunglasses, and swallowed a dry laugh. He looked too much like a celebrity trying to fly beneath the paparazzi's radar, but it seemed to do the trick.

He walked quickly to the car, and pulled out into the street, passing the yellow cab as he went.

The driver never looked twice.

He drove for as long as he could stand - exactly ten hours and twelve minutes. Somewhere outside Ohio, he stopped, booked a room, and stayed there for the next month. A few days into his recovery in that tiny room, his fever spiked, and nearly killed him. He didn't fight, but nevertheless made it through.

The events of his escape were as clear as day to him, but that month was a blur. His phone never rang, or if it did, he wasn't awake enough to hear it.

After that month, he packed up, and moved on.

---

Five am, and the highway was deserted. The moon was high, and too bright for his liking, casting too much light, and creating too much shadow. Out of habit, his eyes flicked to the rearview, then back to the road. He didn't expect anyone to be following him. If his father and brother hadn't found him holed up in a no-name hotel in the boondocks less than half a day from where he'd disappeared --

It didn't surprise him that they weren't looking, but it was entirely unexpected when he realized that it _hurt_. He'd spent years fading into the woodwork, ignoring their calls, and eluding their attempts at locating him. He'd lived on the run without much of a worry of being caught, because he was good at this, and they weren't really trying, after all. But this, this came as a shock.

He'd up and left from what they thought to be his deathbed, gone missing, and he'd expected more, he supposed.

Sniffing at his persistently runny nose, he ran a hand over his eyes, and stifled a yawn. He'd been driving for nearly twenty four hours, minus the occasional break for gas and a piss, and he was tired. Tired of driving, tired of his legs cramping, just tired, period.

He was tired of running, of having no reason and every reason to do so.

He shot onto the off-ramp, going thirty miles too fast, his hands shaking in anger, anticipation.

Without realizing, he found himself speeding down streets, finally locating a ancient phone booth standing on the corner of an empty lot. The location was shady at best, but he wasn't afraid of being mugged. He left his car running, keys inside, as if daring someone to steal it, but the streets remained desolate.

His fingers sought out familiar numbers almost unconsciously, anger fueling his actions.

Breath hitching in his chest, he shifted from foot to foot, eyes on the Impala, fighting the sudden temptation to flee.

Barely a ring before the line picked up, and an anxious voice pleaded, _"Hello?"_

His chest seized.

Something, barely on the cusp of his tongue, caught.

_"Dean?"_ the voice sounded, pitiful.

He sniffed, reflexively, as his nose began to run in earnest, giving to the cold of the night.

Something in the voice lifted, and more certain, he spoke. _"Dean."_

He wanted to say yes. To refuse. To hang up and run, to tell his brother to come get him. A myriad of emotions and responses whirled through his brain, so overwhelming it almost brought him to his knees.

_"You don't have to talk... just... please, Dean. Is it you? Are you okay?"_

The anxiety had seeped back into Sam's voice, and the sound of it clogged his ears, making him sick to his stomach.

He was going to throw up.

His breathing sped up, and he closed his eyes, resting a palm against the cool, graffiti covered glass.

_Oh, God, oh, God, ohGodohGodohGod..._

The world began to spin.

_"Dean... if it's what you want, we'll stop."_

Abruptly, the world righted itself, but everything was suddenly so much more wrong.

He couldn't help as the word began to slip off his lips.

He bit it back.

_"We killed ourselves trying to find you...then trying to understand why you wouldn't wanna be found... please, tell me what you want me to do, Dean,"_ Sam's voice pleaded. "_I can't kill myself anymore... not when I don't know if you're even alive out there."_

He swallowed hard, blinked, kept his eyes on the headlights.

"_Dean...please."_

He hung up, spun, and ran to the car, putting it in gear and peeling away from the curb like the phone was a demon even he was afraid to fight.

He sought the highway again, needing to put distance between himself and the part of him that wanted so desperately to be found.

---

A/N: Okay, so that's it. I'm pretty sure people are going to be throwing things at me now. I said it wasn't a deathfic, but I didn't promise a nice ending! Somehow it just didn't feel right wrapping this one up with a clean ending. It just felt right to leave it open and ambiguous, and just the right amount of despairing, just like the fic itself.

All criticism and critique (as well as the good stuff) is gladly accepted. I just need to see your dirver's license ...


End file.
